


The sky of the sky

by Veto_power_over_clocks



Category: Inception (2010), The Gentlemen (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, An original character was needed for the plot, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Friendship, It's the same world as canon but also they have all the stuff from Inception, M/M, Romance, The Inception AU/Fusion/I don't know what this is that only the writer asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26184751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veto_power_over_clocks/pseuds/Veto_power_over_clocks
Summary: Just because Ray understands the need to protect his subconscious it doesn't mean he has to be happy about having to learn how to do it.He doesn't want to have strangers running around his mind, poking at his secrets and tearing down every wall Ray has carefully built during his life.He doesn't want the Coach to see the lonely maze that is Ray's life and to know what a pitiful creature Ray is when nobody's around.
Relationships: Coach/Raymond Smith, Fletcher/Raymond Smith
Comments: 14
Kudos: 37





	1. A spy for every blink of your eye. (Or: a prologue.)

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't seen "Inception" again since it came out, and then I rewatched it something like a month ago. This fic is the result of that (and of me procrastinating because I'm sad about how close to finishing "Sweet to tongue..." I am).
> 
> If you haven't seen "Inception", what you need to know is that it's about how you can steal information by building artificial dreams for people. You get access to their subconscious and that allows you to learn things about them. The thing is that minds don't like getting invaded and they fight/"kill" the intruders (killing someone in a dream only wakes them up), so a good team has to be careful to build a dream that fools the mark long enough for them to get the information before they're noticed. There are also people that learn how to protect their subconscious, so they can't be targeted that easily by this sort of teams.

The sun is up, the birds are singing, and the streets are clean. Finnian judges everything around him and shakes his head disapprovingly at Mal, whose shoulders drop at the gesture. Finnian hopes that the upcoming serious talk he just earned himself won’t distract Mal from the current situation; they can’t afford to worry about landscaping when they should be worrying about how long they have before Ray realizes what's happening, forcing all of them to run for the sake of their peace of mind. There’s no time to lose.

The boys split up to look around, heading for the secure places they memorized. There’s a safe in a building three blocks from here that Jim wants to blow up. There's a locker in an underground station that Benny wants to take a look at. A post office box that Primetime's looking forward to smashing open. Finnian waits until all of them have left before looking around again, searching for a clue.

If he was an insufferable control freak with a secret, where would he put it?

Nothing in the area looks promising, but the fact that Ray's nowhere to be seen makes Finnian believe there's a chance he might find something useful here, simply because Ray's smart enough not to hover around what he wants to protect. Of course, this is a big place and Ray's only one man, so calling a spot 'promising' only because Ray isn't in it is a leap of logic that makes Finnian wince internally.

He’s certain that that’s one of the most confusing trains of thought he’s ever had, and maybe Finnian should take it as proof that he’s out of ideas.

Maybe Finnian should give up on this little bet he and Ray made and admit that, despite all of Finnian’s training and experience, Ray has managed to outwit him.

Or maybe, he considers as he notices a tall woman in a black dress walking away, he's been overthinking this.

The best way to hide something is to leave it in plain sight, isn't it? Finnian has seen that woman so many times that he's come to consider her as part of the landscape. He's even talked to her a couple of times, just in case, but she’d excused herself nervously after exchanging a few polite sentences, giving him a wary look as she walked away. She hadn’t seemed to know something that would make it worth the effort of following her and potentially getting himself killed. But maybe...

Third time's the charm, right?

Right.

Finnian nods to himself once, looks around to ensure he hasn’t been noticed yet, and heads in the direction the woman went, hoping he won't lose her.

He finds her almost immediately, sitting at an outdoor table in a café, waiting.

Waiting? Why does he think she's waiting?

Finnian frowns and studies her. She has curly black hair and tanned skin. Her dress is sleeveless, tight, and simple, it reached her knees when she was standing, and she’s wearing a long silver necklace. She’s wearing high heels, and she’s sitting with her ankles crossed and her knees pressed tightly. She's taken a book out of her purse and seems immersed in her reading, but something about her calls to him. He feels it in his gut: whoever she is, she knows he's there and she's waiting for him.

It's rude to make a lady wait, especially one that looks at her book with hard eyes, like she’s judging every word’s right to be on the page. Finnian approaches her and gestures at the empty chair in front of her.

“May I join you?” he asks, smiling at her, just a hint of teeth to make it seem sincere, warm enough that it should be read as genuine and not as a threat.

She raises a hand to signal for him to wait, her eyes still on the book, and only lowers her hand to put a scrap of paper between the book’s pages a few seconds later.

"I don't like to stop reading in the middle of a scene," she says, raising her eyes to him. Nothing in her voice or her face makes it sound like an apology or an explanation; it's a fact that she's stating and which Finnian will have to deal with. Her eyes study him with the same severity with which she’d studied the text a second ago.

Then, she smiles, and it’s like a switch was flipped: her gaze softens and her expression is warm and welcoming, and her voice sounds sincere when she gestures towards the empty seat and says, "Please, be my guest."

Finnian sits down and glances at the book. _English Fairy Tales and Legends_.

"Odd country, isn't it?" she says, noticing his curiosity. "So much pride and superstition… I have to wonder if King Arthur’s the reason nobody here knows how to make a decent cup of coffee?” She sighs. “I’m sure my life would be better if there was a story about King Arthur making coffee.”

Finnian laughs at that and extends a hand towards her. "I’m Finnian."

"Yes, I know who you are." She shakes his hand. 

He gives her a bemused look and tries to seem innocent. "Do you?"

She smiles, a mischievous thing that makes her eyes shine and Finnian tense up.

"Irish. Forty-three years old. Single father of at least five." Finnian forces out a small and good-humored laugh at that. If she knows about him, then he really fucked up by not talking to her sooner. "A coach. _The_ coach, for some. One of the best at your job."

Her order arrives then, brought over by a boy that Finnian recognizes from some tabloid cover. She smiles and thanks him before he leaves, and makes a face as soon as she smells the contents of her cup.

“Instant coffee,” she mutters. "Who do you have to kill to get good coffee in this country?" she says dramatically, pushing the cup away from herself and bringing her attention back to Finnian, looking at him seriously. "That's a joke, to be clear. I don't want anyone to die." She puts her elbows on the table. "Back to our conversation… With how good you are, I believed you'd come to find me sooner."

Who is she? Why does she matter? Finnian will have to go over what he thought he knew and figure out where he failed.

"It took me a while to realize that you were important," Finnian admits, apologetically.

"Oh, thank God," she says, sliding slightly down her chair. "I keep worrying people will find me because of my association with Ray, but if _you_ didn't know about me, then I guess I'm safe!"

"What's your association with him?" Finnian asks, looking her up and down. Ray had made it seem like he was single, so she probably isn’t a girlfriend. Maybe an ex? An old friend? Her features make Finnian think of sunshine and wine, not rain and scotch, so he doesn’t think she’s a blood relative.

"That's none of your business," the woman sing-songs, her voice slightly high-pitched at the end. She clears her throat and takes a sip of coffee. She makes a face again. "But almost nothing around here is your business."

"Almost nothing?” Finnian raises an eyebrow and she smirks. “Does that mean that you might answer some of my questions?"

She hums in thought, her smirk in place.

"Only the right questions. If it’s something that Ray wants you to know, I'll tell you," she finally says.

"I'm looking for a secret."

She nods. "I know that. You made a bet with him."

“I did.” Finnian takes a deep breath. “Do I have any chance of finding out what that secret is?”

“Of course.” She tilts her head. “But this whole bet… don’t you think it’s very silly?”

“Silly?”

“Silly, yes.” She licks her lips and makes a face. “The point of secrets is that you want them to stay hidden.” She starts rummaging through her purse. “Telling someone that you have a secret is almost the same as begging them to ask you about it.” She takes out a pocket mirror and studies her reflection. “The moment he agreed to the bet was the moment he decided to lose, and every day he gets more and more eager to lose.” She smiles sadly and puts away the mirror.

“This is an unfair bet, then,” Finnian says quietly.

“It depends on you, really.” The woman sighs. “Do you want to know the secret? Do you want to win this bet?”

“Yes.” Finnian hadn’t meant to answer so quickly, or to sound so certain, but it’s how he feels. If Ray wants to give him a secret, Finnian will gladly take it.

Maybe Finnian should walk away while he still can, before he has to acknowledge what that means.

The woman drums her nails on the table and thinks. Finnian uses the moment to look around and notices what seems to be a better dressed version of himself watching him from across the street.

Time's running out.

Thankfully, the woman nods to herself and stands up.

“Listen, Coach, the truth is that Ray doesn’t really understand what this secret means, so you’ll have to be careful with him.” She sighs and quietly adds, “I guess you can pretend not to know anything if this scares you, yes?”

She moves to stand next to Finnian and leans down, entering his personal space. He expects her to whisper something in his ear, or to hand him an envelope. His only warning that he might not like what's coming is her apologetic look before she kisses the corner of his mouth.

Finnian's mind goes blank for a millisecond, and then he thinks, _For fuck's sake, Ray,_ but the only reaction he allows himself is to curl his hands into fists and take a deep breath.

He doesn’t get to exhale; a bullet destroys the back of his head in that moment, probably courtesy of his sharp-dressed doppelganger.

His last thought is that the woman's perfume smells of jasmine.


	2. Give an answer to a friend, place your past into a book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give up on chapter counts. Every chapter always ends up longer than I planned and I have to split them.
> 
> ("Cee, where's chapter 5 of 'Sweet to tongue...'?" you might wonder. The answer is, "I'm still sad about finishing that fic and I also realized that the original outline for that chapter was _exhausting_ , from a pacing standpoint, so I'm reworking it.")

Call him old-fashioned and a threat to the environment, call him a control freak, call him a bundle of nervous tics and obsessions, but Ray likes printed documents. He likes to be able to show that he has the information he claims to have, to be able to drop a folder on a desk to see how the person in front of him reacts, and not requiring electricity or a Wi-Fi connection to access the information. He also likes how useful a prop a folder can be; if you place a folder in the right place, it fills the room better than an elephant, drawing everyone’s attention towards it, distracting people from the details that matter and making them accidentally reveal more than they'd like.

Folders are also particularly useful when you're trying to find the right person for a delicate job.

When the man walks into the pub for his interview dressed in a checkered tracksuit and in clear need of a shave, Ray considers sending him on his way immediately. Unfortunately, he knows Michael won’t accept Ray’s disapproval of someone’s wardrobe choices as a valid reason to dismiss the best candidate for the job, so he makes a mental note to complain about this eyesore later and shakes the man’s hand.

“Good afternoon,” Ray says, gesturing towards the chair across from him and resting his hands on the folder he has on the table. It’s open on the front page, where the man’s picture, name, and general background information (date of birth, studies, current and past occupations) are clearly visible for anyone willing to make an effort.

“Good afternoon.” The man glances at the file and looks directly at Ray before smirking, amused and reproaching. Ray guesses he can’t blame him for that; his research said the man has been working at this for years, and the ‘folder on the table’ display is rather basic. No true professional should be intimidated by it, and it seems like this particular professional had been expecting something more subtle from Ray.

It’s nice to know that the people you’re dealing with have such a high opinion of you.

“How would you like to be addressed?” Ray asks. He knows the answer to that. Everybody that’s heard about this man knows what to call him when working with him.

“Coach is fine." The man's smirk stays in place. "What should I call you?”

“Ray.”

The Coach nods to himself and changes his expression for something less challenging and more businesslike. “Nice to meet you, Ray.”

The words sound believable; he says them with the right tone and looking as sincere as anybody can afford to be in an interview, but, well, people trying to make an honest living are never happy to meet Ray. Morbidly curious? Yes. Intrigued? Sometimes. Fascinated? It had happened once. But never happy, or even remotely pleased. And yes, the Coach’s business isn’t actually legitimate, but that’s because the government’s still figuring out how to regulate it, not because he’s going against any laws. He’s walking on the thin line between what’s approved and what isn’t, and dealing with Ray is the sort of action that might push him too far into the side that brings trouble. Ray hadn’t expected him to agree to the interview, and even after he’d promised to be there he’d thought the Coach would find a way to cancel it.

“You already know what this interview’s for.” Ray taps on the folder once and closes it. “Do you have any questions about the job?”

“Is your boss allergic to anything? It wouldn’t do to give him a sedative that accidentally kills him,” the Coach says, making a face. “It happened to someone I knew. Nasty mess.”

If the Coach is referring to the incident Ray’s thinking of, ‘nasty mess’ is an understatement. It had started with one dead Italian mobster and ended with three more dead people and someone running away to South America. A rather tasteless mess, in Ray’s opinion (“Italians, Kitten,” Mary had said, sighing theatrically. “We’re overdramatic.”).

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? We haven’t hired you yet.” But still, Ray smiles slightly. The Coach is practical; if Ray’s about to let yet another stranger poke at his thoughts, he wants one that knows what he’s doing.

“No questions, then,” the Coach says, leaning back in his chair. He’s the very picture of quiet confidence: shoulders relaxed, hands in his jacket’s pockets, legs spread.

Time to test him.

"You seem to have misunderstood something," Ray says, watching the Coach's reaction attentively.

The Coach frowns. "About the job?"

Ray nods.

"You told me it was about teaching your boss how to protect his subconscious." The Coach straightens in his chair as he speaks, readying himself to leave.

"And that’s what you’ll do, Coach," Ray raises a hand, placating, which only makes the Coach raise his eyebrows, "but only after you've taught me first."

“Is that so?” the Coach says slowly, studying Ray. He doesn't lean back again; he looks around and shifts in his seat.

Ray watches him squirm for a moment. “What is it?”

“Will you give me the job anyway if you don't like what I'm thinking?” the Coach asks, fake caution in his tone and a hint of anger in his eyes. It sounds like he’s already said goodbye to this offer.

Ray tilts his head slightly. “Try me.” He'd like to make promises, because the Coach is the first applicant that has made Ray feel curious about him, but wariness is necessary.

“You’re telling me that your boss is going to use you as a guinea pig for subconscious security techniques.” There's nothing fake in his voice now, only judgment, and the anger is now visible in the set of his jaw as well.

Ray miscalculated. When he saw the Coach he'd expected questions, comments about Michael, some attempts to fish for information about the business. He'd expected the same thing he's been dealing with all morning, and so he'd prepared himself for business, not for someone to think of Ray's role in said business. Ray can work with this to learn more. He can allow himself some honesty and see what the Coach does with it.

He looks away from the Coach for a moment and blinks slowly.

"That's a harsh way to put it," Ray says calmly, looking at the Coach again.

"Then how would you put it?"

Hints of vulnerability, enough to make the Coach lower his guard.

"Michael will be letting you into his subconscious. He needs to be certain that you can do a good job, and for that he requires the opinion of someone he can trust." Ray is Michael's best man, and thus the most suitable person for the task. Ray needs to learn how to protect his mind as well, because Michael isn't the only one that knows how the business operates, and thus not the only potential target. Ray wants a drink and to go home.

The Coach huffs and shakes his head, looking away from Ray.

"That's only a nicer way to say the same thing."

"Is that what you think?" Ray asks, watching him intently.

The Coach's eyes find Ray's. "You're a smart man, Ray. I'm sure you think the same."

Ray leans back in his seat. "Let's say I do." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. _Make it sound like a secret, make it sound private, make the Coach believe he has won you over and see what happens._ "Why does it bother you?"

The Coach leans forward, resting his hands on the table. Ray looks down at them and takes note of the ring on the right hand and the watch on the left wrist. The Coach’s fingers are pressed hard against the table, turning his fingertips white.

He starts speaking once Ray has returned his attention to his face. "It's one thing to invite a stranger into your own mind. Mickey Pearson is inviting them into yours." He swallows. "It doesn't seem right to me."

Ray won't try to defend Michael; Ray never really had the chance to say no, and even though Michael will be subjecting himself to the training, it’ll only happen after Ray has done it. Anything Ray says will be a lie, and keeping track of unnecessary lies is a waste of effort.

They stare at each other for a long moment; the Coach visibly angry and Ray impassive.

"I think this might not be the right job for you."

"I disagree," the Coach says almost lightly, taking his hands from the table and once again putting them in his pockets. His eyes are hard and his shoulders are tense. "Give me the job, Ray."

What Ray gives him is an unimpressed look. "You don't want it."

The Coach shakes his head. "I dislike it. It's not the same thing."

"You aren't making a good case for yourself." Ray smiles slightly, amused and teasing.

The Coach doesn’t take the bait. He looks at Ray seriously, straightens his back and says, "I'm good at what I do and I know that I won't fuck up your head if you let me in. I can't say the same for whoever else you've called for this."

Ray narrows his eyes and studies him. “So your sales pitch boils down to ‘choose me because I won’t hurt you’?” He tilts his head. “This is a job interview, not a dating show.”

For a second, the Coach stares at him, bemused. Then, all his tension disappears and he starts laughing, his eyes closing and his head turning to the side as if that could hide him. After a moment, he says, smiling widely, “You have to admit, it’s a good argument in both contexts.”

Ray concedes with a slight inclination of his head.

“Now that you know what the job really is, do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” the Coach says. Ray knows exactly what he’s about to say when he leans forward, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Do you have any allergies?”

It’s hard to keep himself from smiling back at the Coach, but Ray manages. “Aspirin."

“I’ll remember that.”

He allows himself to look grateful. It's real, and it should keep the Coach's guard down.

“If that’s all…” Ray extends a hand towards the Coach. “Thank you for coming here today. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” the Coach says, standing up and shaking Ray’s hand.

The Coach’s hand is rough and calloused, and his grip is firm. This is a man that works with his hands. This is a man that knows what he’s doing, or at least pretends he does. This is a man that promised Ray to be careful with him, and Ray has to admit that that’s a nice change from what he’s used to.

People are careful _around_ Ray, not _with_ Ray.

He doesn’t say that to Mary, but she understands anyway.

“You’ll pick him, won’t you?” she says as she sits next to him on her office’s couch, handing him a glass of wine and studying the Coach’s picture.

“It’s not decided yet.”

She hums, kicks off her shoes and folds her legs under herself. “You only mentioned the checkered tracksuit once.” She raises the picture to Ray’s eye level, like he might not have really noticed the outfit. "And look at that beard!" She shakes the picture to emphasize her point. “You’re picking him.”

Ray won’t reply to that: she’ll know if he lies, and she’ll be insufferable if he tells her the truth.

“I think it’s good that someone’s treating you like a person, Kitten!” she says, gesturing with her glass and making Ray fear for the couch. “It’s exhausting to be the only one who does.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, more for show than out of real annoyance; he’s grown used to her calling herself his only friend, even though that’s not exactly true. Friendship involves a certain degree of trust and mutual liking, while what he and Mary have is an agreement to meet once a week to talk, eat and get high, and to promptly forget about each other until the next meeting. It's like taking care of a stray cat, except here the cat talks and tells you all the things you didn't want to hear after you've already said everything the cat didn't want to acknowledge.

His relationship with Michael, meanwhile, is based on efficiency and reliability, and if something similar enough to friendship to be called that has developed between them, it still isn’t strong enough for Ray to tell him the exact reason he chose the Coach among all the others.

“His records were the cleanest,” he says when Michael asks for details. It’s not a lie; any criminal activity that could be dug up in the Coach’s past was almost twenty years ago, and most of his clients have been on the right side of the law.

And that’s that.

Except he can hear the smile in the Coach’s voice when Ray calls him to inform him he got the job, and it makes him wonder who was playing with who during the interview.

* * *

They meet in the pub again three days before Ray’s training is due to start. Officially, the meeting’s purpose is to agree on the final training schedule, discuss payment, and answer any questions either of them might have.

the truth is, Ray set up the meeting in an attempt to find a reason, any reason, to object to the training and postpone it, even if just for one day.

He does his best to sound calm and in control during the conversation, but at some point he finds himself repeating questions and he has to shut his mouth. He takes off his glasses, closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his fingers.

“Bad night?” the Coach asks sympathetically, and for a second Ray believes that this isn't just general decency towards a fellow human, but genuine worry for Raymond Smith himself.

It's only a second, though. He's still the Coach's employer, more or less, and the sort of person that, according to the file, the Coach has tried to keep out of his life for years.

“Long week.” The moment they set a date to begin the training, Ray has been having trouble sleeping, to the point that he’d almost asked Mary for a prescription. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that she’d want to know the reason behind the request, and Mary's concern is a beast he's yet to learn how to handle.

“You can look forward to sleeping on Sunday,” the Coach says lightly.

It’s a joke, Ray knows it, and he should laugh or look amused, but instead his mouth twitches with distaste. What he dislikes more is the flash of understanding that crosses the Coach’s face at that.

Thankfully, the Coach doesn’t comment on it, and instead proceeds to show pictures of every member of his team to Ray, and to explain, again, how he works. He pauses every few sentences to watch Ray expectantly, as if encouraging him to complain or voice his concerns, but Ray’s determined to bear it, and so all he does is nod and gesture for the Coach to continue his explanation.

It’ll only be a few weeks. He’ll be alright, and after this nobody will be able to mess with his head.

* * *

“I thought you worked with a team?” Ray asks when he finds the Coach alone on his doorstep on Sunday.

The Coach is wearing a tracksuit because apparently he has taken a stand against taste, but at least this one’s only one color instead of a checkered insult to sight. He still needs to shave.

He’s also carrying a black briefcase; Ray knows what’s inside it and it makes his stomach twist.

“I thought it might be better to make some small changes to today’s plans,” the Coach says, stepping into the house.

Ray puts up a hand to stop him from walking further into his home. “Shoes off, please.”

The Coach raises an eyebrow. Ray can easily imagine what he’s thinking, and yes, Ray knows that the reason he only has one friend (if she can be called that) is that he’s a bundle of nervous tics and obsessions, thank you very much, but he’s not going to budge on this, considering it’s a common practice in different places. There are other habits to work on.

At least the Coach doesn’t make any comments as he takes off his shoes and leaves them by the door.

“Where can I wash my hands?”

Ray points him towards the toilet, tells him where he’ll be waiting, and receives the briefcase from him. He congratulates himself for holding it normally and not like it contains the tool that will be used to destroy Ray's last illusion of privacy and control.

Mary would laugh if she heard that, considering how well she read him as soon as she met him. He’d laugh as well because, no matter how good she might be at her job, she can still miss details, and there are things Ray will never tell her if he can help it.

All of that almost makes Ray smile. Almost, because the briefcase is still on the table in front of him, reminding him of what he’s gotten into.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” the Coach says as he walks into the living room.

Ray looks up to him and follows him with his eyes to see where he’s going to sit. He doesn’t know what to think when the Coach gestures for Ray to move to the side and takes the spot next to him on the couch, watching him expectantly.

“I don’t like needles," Ray says, trying to force his body to relax. It's not a lie.

The Coach purses his lips and looks away from him, reaching to open the briefcase and gesturing towards the machine inside it. “You already know what this is.”

“The PASIV,” Ray says, nodding. “How did you get one? I couldn’t discover that while I put together your file.”

The Coach gives him a secretive smile and pats the machine affectionately. “I won’t answer that, Ray, but I promise you that the way I got it won't hurt you or anybody else.”

"That's an oddly specific and highly suspicious promise." And, somehow, Ray believes it.

"I thought you were worried about that."

"No, I'm curious." He dislikes unknown variables, they always come back to fuck things up in one way or another.

"Well, that's too bad, Ray," the Coach says, his expression apologetic and his tone telling Ray that he'll have to live with the question.

Ray narrows his eyes and studies him, all the things he doesn't know dancing at the front of his mind, demanding to be asked about.

Instead, he turns his attention back to the PASIV.

"So, how do we start?" He starts unbuttoning his shirt sleeve, but the Coach puts a hand over Ray's wrist and stops him.

Ray stares at the Coach's hand and gives the man a serious look. If he felt how Ray tensed up at his touch, he doesn't let it show.

"Easy, Ray. No dreaming today." He moves his hand away. "I got the impression that you weren't very excited about this." He points at the PASIV. "I thought maybe you'd want to talk about it first."

"We talked the other day," Ray says dryly, putting a hand over the spot on which the Coach’s fingers had rested a moment before, rubbing at the skin.

The Coach raises an eyebrow and exhales slowly.

"I get it. You're a tough gangster and we've just met." He speaks slowly and watches Ray cautiously. Ray really wants a drink now. Or to kick this man out of his house. "But I'm going to be in your head soon. I'm going to be face to face with, well… everything about you. All your secrets." Ray swallows. "So I need you to trust me. It'll make things easier for both of us."

Ray laughs humorlessly. "What do you want to know? You'll see everything soon, won't you?"

“Come on, Ray. You know the difference between being given something and stealing it.” He says it lightly, but the way he looks at Ray makes him want to both tell him everything and run away. He looks at Ray like he sees him, like he's aware that Ray is a person, not a cog in the machine that is Michael's business.

The moment passes when the Coach looks away to take a vial from the suitcase, holding it up for Ray to see. "This is the sedative we use. I brought you a sample in case you wanted to have it analyzed first."

Ray takes the vial and sighs. "Am I that obvious?"

"I don't know what you mean," the Coach says innocently. Is he teasing Ray? "You're the one that keeps everything running for Pearson, so I thought you'd like to know what we use.” He smiles slightly. “For your file."

Ray blinks. Yes, the Coach is teasing him. Good-natured teasing, apparently, and isn’t that something?

"Thank you."

The Coach gestures towards the PASIV. “I don’t have any other jobs of this sort besides this one, so I’ll be leaving this here. It’s probably safer than carrying it around, and you can use the time until our next meeting to look it over, if you want.”

This man makes no sense at all. What is he thinking? What is he planning? Does he understand what he’s offering? Ray wishes he could reverse their roles and be the one that will get to pick at the Coach’s mind, figure out how it works, what it is that he fears and hates.

“Aren’t you worried that I’ll sell it? These are worth a fortune in the black market,” Ray says, a hint of threat in his voice.

“This is a side job. It pays really well, but it won’t kill me to lose it.” The Coach shrugs. “If anything, it should make my life easier. No maintenance, no worrying about who hires me, no turning away people that want to hire me for the wrong sort of job...” He makes a face.

“If it’s so troublesome, why are you working in subconscious security?”

“Did I mention that it pays well?”

It looks like that’s all Ray will get from that line of questioning. He’ll add it to the list of things he wants to know about the Coach.

“No dreaming today, then,” Ray says, noticing himself finally starting to relax.

“No dreaming today, and you get to inspect the PASIV before our next meeting, if you want.”

Ray narrows his eyes and studies the Coach. He looks at ease in Ray’s house, like this isn’t the sort of job that could end in blood if something goes wrong.

“Why are you doing this?” His tone is sharper than he’d like.

“Doing what?” The Coach looks genuinely bemused by the question. “I’ve already told you that the pay-”

“Not that. This.” Ray points at himself. “Giving me an extra week to prepare, leaving the PASIV here, all this talking… What’s the point?” The accusation in his tone, however, is deliberate. Something about all this is wrong, starting from the moment the Coach agreed to the interview.

“Ah.” The Coach’s look softens. “I work in subconscious security, Ray. The whole point of my job is to make your mind a safe place. I’ll be the one building your defenses, and it doesn’t work if you don’t believe I’m safe for you.”

It makes sense. It makes perfect sense. Everything Ray found out about the Coach said that he was an honest man, so there’s no reason not to believe him. But still, lowering all his defenses for this stranger just because he asked nicely?

Forget drinking; Ray needs to smoke.

All he can do is sigh and take off his glasses.

"What should I tell you about?"

"Today I want to know exactly how you feel about shared dreaming." The Coach looks at Ray seriously, maybe even with concern, and that's something as well. "I want to know what you think of having me and my lads running around your head."

Ray puts on his glasses again and looks at the Coach in the eye as he says, "I don't want it." He swallows. "I hate it. I don't like needles. I don't like having chemicals in my blood. I don't like that I have to share my life and thoughts with a group of strangers." He doesn't like that Michael put him in this situation and he hates that the Coach looks at him like he understands, without judgment, like he thinks Ray is someone that deserves such consideration. He hates that his mind, the only thing over which he should have a semblance of control, is about to be invaded.

There’s silence for a moment, like the Coach is waiting for Ray to continue. Ray brings his attention back towards the PASIV and keeps his mouth shut.

The Coach clears his throat and Ray looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t like that you didn’t get to choose this,” the Coach says gravely, and the hint of anger is back in his eyes. “All I can do is promise you again that I’ll do a good job.” Ray turns his head to look at him directly. “Nothing I learn while I’m helping you will be used against you.” He smiles, amused, and adds, “And that has nothing to do with how afraid I am of what you might do in retaliation.”

It brings out a quick, surprised laugh out of Ray, which only makes the Coach smile more widely.

“I’d been wondering if you were aware of that,” Ray admits.

“I’m very aware of who you are, Ray,” the Coach says, his voice an odd mix of resignation and lightness, like he’s reached whatever’s after acceptance in the five stages of grief. “It won’t stop me from doing my job.”

 _Why did you agree to apply for this job?_ Ray wants to ask. Is he trying to sabotage Michael's business? Unlikely, considering the Coach's history. Does he want to earn Michael's goodwill? More probable. Was it for the pay? He’s mentioned money twice already, maybe Ray has been giving him too much credit by believing he has better reasons.

This seems to be one of those rare situations in which Ray can afford to be in the dark, and he wants to take it. He wants to believe that there aren't any secret motives behind the Coach's kindness towards him, that that's simply how he is, even to someone like Ray.

Ray's eye twitches in discomfort, at his awareness of his weakness.

Nobody can know that he didn't take the chance to ask a question.

* * *

Mary hums in thought and pokes at her food with her fork after Ray finishes telling her about his first training session with the Coach. He leaves out details, everything he thinks might say too much about how he feels around the Coach, but still, Mary hums, so Ray narrows his eyes and prepares himself for whatever it is that she thinks she’s figured out.

Mary has many traits that Ray likes despite his personal vow to never get attached to her, among which is the fact that she never learned the meaning of the words tact and subtlety. If Mary wants to say something to you, she’ll say it, probably in the worst possible way, and she’ll find herself depending on your goodwill to keep things civil. She also has the terrible habit of noticing more than Ray would like her to notice, which would be dangerous if their entire acquaintanceship wasn’t based on brutal honesty, intoxicated vulnerability, and constant attempts to get on each other's nerves.

“What is it?”

“Well…” She pushes her food around, making small mounds that she breaks down as soon as they're finished. “I don’t know. Be careful, that’s all.”

Ray stares at her and waits as she keeps playing with her food. Mary’s general inability to keep her mouth shut and her unwillingness to do so around him make the rare instances in which she doesn’t speak her mind sound off all the alarms in Ray’s brain.

“Give me some time to think about this, Kitten,” she says, shaking her head and still poking at her food. “Just… just let me think, yes?”

“Fine.” Ray exhales heavily. How annoying. “How’s Luke?”

Mary freezes and glares at him, her upper lip curling and showing her teeth. Then she proceeds to tell him about her ex husband’s upcoming wedding, slowly tapping her foot as she speaks.

* * *

For the next session, the Coach comes with Benny, one of the members of his team he’d shown to Ray in pictures. He’s also dressed in a checkered tracksuit, and while Ray had already resigned himself to having to see these outfits for the rest of his training, it doesn’t make it any less painful to know that there’s more than one person out there willingly dressing like this.

Bunny’s at Ray’s place as well, because Ray figured there was no reason not to have someone keeping watch, just in case, and the Coach doesn’t react when he sees that they have company. Considering he’d expected Ray to have the sample of the sedative analyzed and the PASIV checked for signs of tampering, perhaps he’d seen this coming as well.

The analysis of the sedative didn’t show anything worrying, and the PASIV is a normal model that has only been touched for scheduled maintenance.

“Today we’ll go over the basics of artificial dreaming,” the Coach says after all the introductions have been made and they’ve comfortably settled in the living room. “Are you ready to start?” He asks it casually, but the way he holds Ray’s gaze makes Ray believe that he could try to delay this if he wanted to, that the Coach would come up with an excuse to keep Ray out of the dream again.

“Let’s begin, Coach,” Ray says with a calm he doesn’t feel, and rolls up his sleeve.

The Coach shows him the needles and the vials of sedative, opens everything in front of Ray and visibly bites his tongue when Ray insists on being the one that cleans his own arm with the alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

“Here comes the needle,” the Coach says as he’s about to connect Ray to the PASIV, like this was some sort of medical procedure, and it amuses Ray enough to allow him to relax as he closes his eyes.

He opens them again immediately to find himself in the pub where he met the Coach, with the Coach sitting across from him.

“Why here?” he asks, looking around. Something about the place seems odd, but he can’t quite pinpoint what it is.

“I thought it’d be easier to start with a place where you felt comfortable,” the Coach says, looking around as well. “It doesn’t look bad, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Ray runs his fingers over the table. He can feel the wood’s texture against his skin, how cold it is. When he presses them against it, his fingertips turn white.

“The first thing to do is to figure out what things around you don’t match with the way reality should be,” the Coach says, gesturing towards a shadow on the floor that doesn't seem to belong to any of the objects around them.

The Coach watches as Ray walks around the room, trying to find all the differences between the dream and the real pub. Once he's done, the Coach points out everything he missed and finishes with a “Not bad for a first attempt" that has Ray itching for another try, which might have been the Coach’s plan.

There are several sessions of five minutes in the real world that feel like an hour in the dream. After each dream they spend some time discussing what happened; Benny listens and takes notes, and the Coach asks Ray to explain to him all the things that tipped him off about the dream world. All in all, they didn’t dream for more than an hour, but with all the talking, and a lunch break, it gets dark before the Coach decides to call it a day.

“But first, how about one more?” the Coach says, smiling at Ray. He’s sprawled on the couch, content and relaxed, and he makes Ray wish he also could feel so at ease with the process.

“Sounds fine by me,” Ray says, closing his eyes and waiting for the needle.

This time, when he opens his eyes he’s in a house by the sea, an old stone building that seems to be waiting for someone to remember to bring it down, since the elements hadn’t managed to do it. It doesn’t have glass on the windows and there isn’t a door, just an opening in the wall; there aren’t any lightbulbs or something to indicate that the building has electricity, and the illumination comes from several candles that sit on the floor, with flames that don’t flicker despite the breeze that comes into the room.

When he turns to look for the Coach, he finds him looking around with open curiosity and a fond smile that disappears as soon as his eyes meet Ray’s.

“Did you decide to stop trying to trick me?” Ray gestures at the room, finding so many wrong elements that it’d be impossible for anyone to mistake this moment for reality. Perhaps the strangest thing is that the Coach is wearing jeans.

“No, I thought you needed a break,” the Coach says, sitting on a table in the middle of the room. “To get to enjoy a dream without pressure.” He pats the spot next to him on the table. “Come here, Ray.”

“You want me to sit on the table?” Ray gives him an unimpressed look that’s met with a cheeky smirk.

“It’s not a real table, nothing happens if you sit on it.”

And that’s true, isn’t it? This is a dream. It doesn’t matter if Ray makes a mistake, it doesn’t matter if Ray forgets something or acts without thinking; nothing will affect Ray’s life.

He sits next to the Coach and that’s when he realizes that he’s also wearing jeans. Unlike the Coach, however, he’s wearing a shirt instead of a t-shirt, but it’s a loose garment, so worn that it’d do a better job if it was used to wipe counters. He’s not wearing a watch, but his ring remains on his finger.

“Did I pick this?” he says, pointing at his outfit.

“Your subconscious did.” The Coach starts swinging his legs. “It sees where you are and dresses you accordingly.”

“And where are we?” Ray asks, looking around again.

The Coach shrugs. “No idea. I thought a beach house would be nice.”

“It looks like you referenced a horror movie to build this,” Ray says, without malice. "Or a psychological thriller. Is someone going to start chasing us with an axe?"

The Coach laughs. “It’s not my best construction, that’s true.” He breathes in deeply. “I was more interested in the sea.”

Ray closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can smell the salt in the air and feel the breeze against his face. He can hear the waves and, if he focuses, he thinks he hears birds. Next to him, the Coach’s arm is warm against his own, and Ray allows himself to relax. If he keeps his eyes closed he can ignore everything that’s wrong around him and pretend he isn’t asleep at home, opening his mind to a stranger, but that he’s by the ocean with… with...

He opens his eyes. He can’t think of anyone he could run away to the sea with, so he might as well accept that he's in a dream with the Coach.

It's a nice dream, at least.

"Thank you," he says. When the Coach turns to give him a questioning look, he adds, "For this."

"Not every dream has to be about exposing yourself," the Coach says, turning his attention towards what can be seen of the ocean through the doorway.

Ray could say that he knows a woman who might be able to read the Coach's life story from the details in this room. He could, but he doesn't and he won't, partly out of respect for Mary, but mainly because she might be the only secret he has left; not even Fletcher knew about her and Michael doesn't imagine that she exists. Even Ray occasionally forgets that there's someone out there that pretends to give a damn about him regardless of how useful he is.

He leans forward and watches the water. His arm is no longer touching the Coach's.

"Any thoughts on your first day of training?"

"It was less invasive than I expected." Ray closes his eyes and focuses on the smell of salt. He can almost taste it on his tongue. "Then again, it's only the first session."

The Coach hums in agreement.

"It was almost… nice," Ray says. "Spotting all the wrongness. Criticizing reality." He smiles and opens his eyes. "Being encouraged to be a perfectionist."

When he looks at the Coach, he finds him smiling as well.

"Despite what it has been used for," the Coach says, "shared dreaming is fun." His expression turns pensive. "You only have to be careful not to end up liking it more than reality."

Ray's smile drops. "It's been turned into another type of drug," he says quietly, thinking about people that try to run away from life by sinking into an endless lie, people that will sleep forever in hospital beds, people that don’t know whether or not they’re awake.

"Far more dangerous, Ray." The Coach sounds serious, something like sadness hanging at the edge of his voice. He might be thinking about the same things Ray’s thinking of. "Haven't you ever had a dream you didn't want to wake from?"

"Never one that would make me want to leave reality," Ray says, shaking his head. "I like my life."

The Coach looks at him curiously. "Tell me about yourself, Ray. Let me understand you."

"All those things you need to know to figure me out and build my defenses?" Ray says, resigned.

"I don't actually need to know everything about you." The Coach makes a dismissive gesture. "I only need to know how you think, what you fear, and what makes you feel safe and lower your guard."

"And you don't think that's a lot of information?"

The Coach makes a face. "I guess what I'm saying is that I don't need details?" At Ray's raised eyebrow and amused smirk, he adds, "Why don't you start talking and I tell you whether or not it matters?"

"That works, I guess." Suddenly, the Coach's presence next to him feels oppressive. This man wants to know everything he needs to understand to break Ray's mind, and Ray's about to hand over his weaknesses on a silver platter for him to judge and dissect.

He pushes himself off the table and walks towards one of the windows. He can see people in the distance, slowly approaching the house.

"Can we leave that for another day?"

He doesn't turn to see how the Coach reacts to that.

"Sure."

Ray hears the Coach's feet hit the floor, his approaching footsteps and the deep breath he takes when he stops walking. The Coach stands next to Ray and doesn't speak until Ray's looking at him.

"We have time," he says.

Ray nods and returns his attention to the sea, and they stay in silence until time runs out and they wake up in Ray's living room, where Bunny and Benny are discussing Lando Calrissian's style choices.

"Who?" the Coach asks.

"From 'Star Wars'," Benny says.

"Ah," the Coach says, in a tone that makes it clear that that hasn't helped him much. He gives Ray a questioning look, but Ray can only shrug, as lost as the Coach in regards to that particular franchise.

At that, the Coach smiles, an 'Oh well, at least it's not just me' clearly visible in the curve of his mouth and which makes Ray want to say something, anything, to prolong this moment of complicity.

Nothing comes to mind. Nothing he can say aloud, anyway, and so the moment passes, the Coach stops paying attention to him, and then everybody leaves.

* * *

Ray dreams of the sea.

Ray dreams of saltwater on his tongue.

Ray dreams of kissing someone's neck, back, and shoulders and of tasting sweat on their skin.

When Ray wakes up, he tells himself he doesn't know who he dreamed of. He tells himself he doesn't mind all the empty space in his bed.

His phone tells him it's three forty seven in the morning. A small blessing; his pride might not be strong enough to stop him from repeating the particular mistake that is Fletcher, but he has enough consideration not to get the bastard out of bed at this time.

* * *

“How was the training?” Michael asks as he takes a seat in Rosalind’s office, a cup of tea in his hands.

Officially, Michael’s there to pay a quick visit to his wife before continuing with his day, but Ray has worked with him for too many years not to know the real reason for this: Michael wants Rosalind to hear Ray’s answer to that question.

Rosalind stands in front of her desk, leaning against it for support, and watches Ray with open interest, her own drink forgotten on the desk. Ray’s thankful for her honesty; he likes it better than Michael’s careful sipping and tasting of his tea that doesn’t hide the way he studies Ray.

Maybe this is how timebombs feel. He knows that Michael is wondering if anything could have been taken from Ray’s mind yesterday, or if an idea could have been planted in his head, nevermind that inception is the sort of thing that couldn’t be accomplished by a single man on a superficial dream level. Ray did his reading before he started the selection process, and he knows that yesterday he was as safe as he could possibly be.

“Fine,” Ray says, and proceeds to tell him what was done.

“Sounds like a bore,” Michael says after Ray has finished speaking. “Keep me updated, yes?” He stands up and makes another cup of tea, which he hands to Ray.

As Ray sips his tea, he muses on how Michael should be more worried about the conversations that Ray has had with the Coach while awake than about anything that might happen inside Ray’s mind.

* * *

A couple of days after the training session, Fletcher calls. He calls for the same reason and with the same intentions he’s had every single time he has called Ray before, and for a moment Ray wonders if Fletcher has found a secret window into Ray’s mind that lets him see when Ray has reached the level of pitifulness that's necessary for him to agree to Fletcher’s visit.

Ray’s only comfort is that nobody knows about the regular lapses in his judgment that lead to Fletcher settling on Ray’s couch like he owns the house, drinking scotch and trading veiled insults with Ray, the sort of detached foreplay that suits their nonexistent relationship and which always ends with them in Ray’s bed. Fletcher had once tried to stay on the couch, but Ray had told him that he didn’t like Fletcher enough to get either his clothes or the couch dirty for him.

“That’s unfair, Ray,” Fletcher had said, his smile mocking, “you don’t like anyone enough to get dirty for them.”

Ray hadn’t said anything then and he doesn’t say anything now as Fletcher once again teases him about his preferences and requirements for sex; if Fletcher doesn’t like it, he can leave. A part of Ray hopes that Fletcher will go. He’s ashamed of how badly he wants Fletcher to stay.

At least where it comes to the fucking itself, Fletcher doesn’t complain.

* * *

On his next meeting with Mary, Ray doesn’t tell her about watching the sea with the Coach. He tells her about what it was like to question reality, about the increasingly difficult tests the Coach had set for him, about how much he still hates having a stranger examining his mind. He doesn’t tell her about Fletcher’s visit either; he hasn’t mentioned Fletcher around Mary since the official break-up and he’s not about to let her know that, unofficially, things have stayed the same.

“Sounds like you had fun,” Mary says, smiling. “I’m glad.”

Ray blinks. He hadn’t really thought about it in those terms.

“Fun?”

“Yes.” She nods and returns to her attempt to roll a joint. “It sounds like your sort of thing. A puzzle made just for you.” Ray watches her, trying to determine if she’s teasing him, but she seems to be having too much difficulty with what she's doing to put any effort into being anything but honest. “It sounded fun to me.” She shrugs and gives Ray an apologetic smile, gesturing towards the sad results of her efforts.

Ray raises an eyebrow at her pitiful attempt. “Yes,” he says as he takes over the task. “Yes, I think it was fun.”

Mary smiles again, wide enough that she ends up squinting, and for a moment Ray almost believes that she’s a friend instead of an ally.

He wants to hold on to that for a while longer, so he asks her who Lando Calrissian is and what’s the problem with his fashion sense. He’s not surprised to hear that she has many thoughts on the subject.

“I like the cape, though,” she sighs after she’s done with her rambling, closing her eyes and lying back on the couch. Ray puts the joint in her hand and, after taking a drag, she starts quietly humming to herself.

* * *

If somebody asked him, Ray would say that he’d done it out of practicality. He’d say that it had seemed smarter to him to use Sundays for actual training instead of wasting time on talking. He’d say that, since the Coach had told him that he’d need to learn more about Ray sooner or later, he’d figured it’d be better to set up a meeting to give the Coach all the information he needed before the next training session.

Since nobody asks, Ray doesn’t have to lie. When Ray calls the Coach and asks him to meet so Ray can talk about himself, the Coach simply asks him the date and time and says he’ll be there.

How do you prepare for interrogation? Do you make food? Bring out a bottle of something? Lock all the rooms you don't want the other snooping around in?

The Coach arrives in time and stands awkwardly at Ray's door, holding a biscuit tin.

"It seemed odd not to bring anything today," he says in response to Ray's questioning look.

Ray almost smiles at that. "I'll put on the kettle," he says as he takes the tin from the Coach's hands.

Maybe he wasn't the only one that didn't really know what today was about.

The Coach turns out to be a coffee drinker. Ray, meanwhile, prefers tea, but he has a coffee maker that he only used once to learn how it worked and coffee beans he bought just in case.

"In case of what?" the Coach asks as he watches Ray prepare his coffee.

Ray shrugs. "Somebody told me once that instant coffee was a sin against the taste buds." Mary's rant on the subject had been so passionate that Ray had almost felt bad for not caring about coffee. It might have been her way to get back at him for the time he spent twenty minutes complaining about the use of avocados in modern cuisine. "If they ever come here, I don't want them complaining."

"Do you get many visitors?"

It takes Ray a second to answer. "Not many, no." There's Fletcher about twice a month, and occasionally Michael for work. Bunny and Dave for work. The cleaning lady doesn't count.

Despite his preparations for it, he doesn't think Mary will ever come here. They've both been careful never to meet outside of her office, and he's sure the only thing that would get them to break that particular rule would be a life-or-death situation, and even then, well. He's never given her his address. Mary exists outside of what he considers his life, an odd constant that knows too much and too little at the same time and who must never become part of his world.

"So this is an honor, then," the Coach says lightly, a small smile on his face.

“There isn’t really a choice here, is there?” Ray says, setting the cup of coffee in front of the Coach.

He looks away from Ray and studies the cup. He’s not smiling anymore. “We can meet elsewhere.”

“That would be impractical,” Ray says, leaning against the kitchen counter. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again. “I guess this is one of those things I’m supposed to tell you about.” It’s not a question, it’s a resigned introduction to his life story. “Do you want sugar or cream?”

“Sugar, please.”

Ray hands him the sugar bowl, prepares himself a cup of tea and watches the Coach take a sip of coffee before putting half a spoonful of sugar in it. He tries not to stare when the Coach licks his lips.

Ray puts the sugar bowl back in its place, grabs the biscuits tin and leads the Coach to the living room.

“I spend the entire day making sure things go smoothly,” Ray says, leaning back in his seat and talking to the ceiling. “And there’s always something that can go wrong, so I have to be ready for that. I’m not only talking about the job, I’m talking about… everything. You could say something in the wrong tone and suddenly you have an offended acquaintance. Or mix up some words and give the wrong idea about something.”

Ray looks at the Coach, who nods to signal he’s still listening.

“At home… Things here mostly work how I want them to. People don’t come here without an invitation, and I rarely invite anyone. I have rules and ways to organize everything that don’t have to accommodate anyone but myself.” Ray blinks a couple of times and looks away from the Coach. Calculated vulnerability is easy. This? Ray doesn’t want to say another word. “But you’ve already seen my mind. Keeping you out of my house seems pointless.”

For a moment there’s silence, only interrupted by some cars that can be heard outside.

"You could have done it anyway," the Coach says. "Keeping me out of your home," he clarifies when Ray frowns questioningly. "Thanks for letting me come here today."

Earnestness, sincerity, genuine concern… they aren't common in Ray's job. Displaying even a shred of any of those is usually enough to earn his general goodwill; what's left for him to give to someone that openly treats him with kindness?

And is it really kindness, or is it common decency, twisted into something greater by Ray's lack of exposure to it?

There’s always the option that it’s all an act. It still doesn’t make sense for the Coach to want to work with Michael.

"You're welcome," Ray says, leaving his musings for later. He opens the biscuits tin and offers it to the Coach. "So… about myself. Where should I start?"

"Wherever you prefer." The Coach takes a biscuit. "I'll ask questions if I have them."

Ray nods, sets the tin on the table, and rattles off some general information, the sort that goes on a medical file. Place and date of birth, what and where he studied, how long he's been in London.

"I've been working with Michael for fourteen years," Ray says, distinctly remembering their first meeting. Michael had kicked him in the ribs and Ray had proceeded to negotiate his way out of the mess he'd gotten himself into. Michael later said that he'd liked Ray's attitude and way of thinking. "I have an older brother that would have a lot to say about my job if we were still on speaking terms."

"What about the rest of your family?"

Ray smiles to himself. "My mother thinks I work in finances and laments that I've yet to meet a nice girl." That he'll never settle down with a woman is something that his mother doesn't seem to want to acknowledge. "But she says I'm still young and that she's happy as long as I'm happy." He takes a sip from his cup. "My father died some years ago. We didn't talk either."

With the sort of life he leads, it's better for everyone to stay away from Ray.

"Any lovers or romantic partners that could be used against you?" the Coach asks.

Where to start with his romantic life? Or his lack of one, really.

Ray grabs a biscuit and stares at it, hoping that some clear way to organize his thoughts will come to him.

"No steady relationships," he finally says, and bites into the biscuit. "Nobody that would want to see me again, as far as I know, so if they showed up in a dream I'd be wary."

The Coach waits as Ray keeps slowly eating his biscuit.

"My latest partner…" Ray would really like it if he never had to talk about Fletcher again, but it seems like Fortuna loves to force him into situations where he has to acknowledge the relationship. "It was a casual thing. We only met up for sex."

The Coach nods. "I reckon it's over now?"

Officially? "Yes." Ray clenches his jaw, swallows, and says, "He wasn't good enough to make up for how annoying he was."

He watches the Coach carefully, assessing his reaction, but he simply looks amused.

"I know the type."

It's when Ray's shoulders come down that he realizes how much he'd tensed up. He tries to smile. "Do you have any stories to share?"

The Coach gives him a mock reproaching look and says, "We won't talk about me today."

"It can't be much fun to listen to a man talk about himself for hours."

"Oh, I know. I've had dates like that." The Coach laughs. "But, since this is my job, fun isn't a priority." He grabs a biscuit and gestures at Ray with it. "So, no talking about me."

There seems to be something about the Coach that messes up with Ray's self-awareness, because now that he's made it clear that personal questions aren't allowed, Ray realizes that he wants to know more.

"Fine." He sighs. "What else should I tell you?"

"Some more about this ex of yours? What was it you liked about him?"

And so, Ray starts talking. He talks about Fletcher, then he talks about the only time he fell in love and about how relationships seem to be more trouble than they're worth in this line of work, and throughout the monologue he's far too aware of every movement the Coach makes.

It seems like all the attention Ray has stopped paying to himself has gone to the Coach. To the way he licks crumbs off his fingers after finishing each biscuit. To how his hands hold the cup. To the line of his body as he leans back and spreads his legs, making himself comfortable as Ray speaks.

This could be a problem.

“I think this is enough for one day, don’t you agree?” the Coach asks after Ray has given him a clear idea of the sort of person that would catch his attention in a dream.

“I thought you needed to know everything about me?” Ray raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, but we have weeks left together.” The Coach smiles. “We can talk again some other day.”

“Same day and same time next week?” Ray suggests before he can think better about it.

“Do you want me to bring anything for tea?” the Coach says, gesturing towards the biscuits tin.

Ray lets out a quick laugh and shakes his head. “We have enough biscuits left for next week.”

“Very well, then.” The Coach stands up and takes his cup to the kitchen. “Thanks for the coffee, Ray.”

“Thanks for the biscuits, Coach.”

Later, when Ray finds himself thinking about the Coach’s hands as he tries to fall asleep, he concludes that he does, in fact, have a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably own my Nonna an apology for the "Italians are overdramatic" thing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Vetoing_Clocks) (where I mostly ramble) or [Tumblr](https://veto-power-over-fanworks.tumblr.com/) (where I mostly reblog stuff that reminds me of whatever I'm working on).


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